In Midnights and Cups of Coffee
by eyebrows.up
Summary: Eight friends. One city. Twenty-three chromosomes. 525,600 minutes. How will they measure a year in their lives? Measure in love.
1. Prologue: December 20, 1994

**_This is my attempt at a fanfiction! I have a Satan Boss, so I'll probably update either every week or every other week. Looking for a beta! Hope you enjoy!_**

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December 20, 1994**_

"Hey, man, turn that fuckin' camera off."

Jasper Whitlock cringed and quickly averted his eyes from behind the lens to staring right into the face of the ugly club owner with a long scar down one cheek, a reminder that he was a dangerous man with dangerous friends.

Jasper turned the camera around to record his own narrative soundbyte. "Once again, strip mogul James Hunter foils my master plans to accurately depict life in Alphabet City."

"Turn the fuckin' thing off or I'll fuckin' shove it so far down tour goddamn Jew throat that the only thing you can tape is the view out your asshole!"

Jasper turned his camera off.

"Aw, Pookie, you can film vagina plenty of places," soothed his girlfriend, Alice Brandon, resident small-time performance artist and large-time jailbird. She stretched her arm around his shoulders and the light from the stage caught her dangling navel ring. "You don't need to settle for this shithole just because James is the biggest cunt of them all."

Edward Masen slid back into his seat beside Alice, looking windswept and thoroughly fucked, with eyes like dinner plates. He ran a shaking hand through his thick shag of auburn hair and smirked at Jasper. "Production shut down again, Jazz Man?"

Jasper nodded, looked over his shoulder quickly, and then leaned across Alice to whisper conspiratorially. "But not before I got some good shots of your favorite little kittycat. You can thank me later."

Edward nodded with a high, hazy grin and held out his hand to low-five Jasper.

He turned his gaze back to the wrought-iron cage that hung above the stage, where every night, a little nymphette Lolita in black leather and lace writhed against the bars blindfolded and with her wrists handcuffed above her head. Edward's band's set over at the Volterra Lounge didn't let out until after the cagedancer's feature, so he'd never caught her name, but he never missed the little trickles of sweat that ran down the inside of her thighs when she wrapped them around metal and rode the bars.

"She's pretty, Eddie," Alice agreed, "But I like my women like I like my coffee… strong, hot, and black."

"Strong, hot, and black… you jonesin' for a little Em-meat, little Alice?" boomed Emmett McCarty, sauntering over to the table. He was a huge man with close cropped hair, gold hoop earrings, and dimples like craters cut into his smooth chocolate brown skin.

Jasper shot him a withering look.

Alice pouted. "Oh, pookie, you know I only love you." Then she scowled at Emmett. "Stuff a fucking dildo in it, Em. You're making Jasper self-conscious."

"Alice, baby, The Jazz Man is always self-conscious. He's a goddamn NYU Film School grad, being a well-intentioned bitch ass is a graduation requirement." He guffawed and slapped Jasper on the back, making his glasses slide down his nose. "Anyway bitches, guess who scored a motherfucking date with Lauren Fucking Mallory tomorrow night?"

"Lauren Mallory?" asked Jasper.

"Of the Westport Mallories?" asked Alice.

"Good lay," contributed Edward. "Terrible blow. But good 'blow.'"

"Good to know," Emmett said. He bumped fists with Edward. "Where's Lady Jane tonight?"

"No idea," Edward said offhandedly. "But the stripper in blue over there tastes fucking scrumptious."

Alice shook her head. "Edward, with all the wild oats you sow, we ought to start calling you Quaker."

"They're quaking once I'm done with them all right," Edward agreed cheekily.

He took a last loving look at his little S&M nymph in her protective cage, slung his guitar over his back, and stretched.

"I should get home and see my Janie. She was acting weird again this morning." He turned to Jasper. "I'll leave the key in the mailbox."

Humming a song about sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll, Edward made his way down the snowy street. The padlock on the building was biting cold and rusty, the hallway drafty, but Edward was at home and living the bohemian life he dreamed of and loved.

The peeling door of the abandoned apartment all five friends shared (Edward, Jasper, Janie, Alice, and Emmett) creaked as he shouldered it open.

"Hey, Janie, I'm home," Edward called and was met with uncharacteristic silence.

He locked the deadbolts and set down his guitar, reaching into the case and taking out his kit to share smack with Jane before bed. "Janie?"

Then Edward noticed the sliver of light from beneath the heavy bathroom door and heard the dripping of water. He smiled, liking the idea of his girlfriend naked and wet, waiting for him, and opened the door.

Blood.

The scent of it assaulted him first, metallic, sickly sweet, and overpowering. It made his throat burn.

Then the sight of Jane, his Janie, pale white and ice cold in the bathtub with long gashes in her arms and dark crimson water matting her pale blonde hair.

Edward staggered backwards and gripped the small counter for support, his heart in his throat.

The heel of his left hand felt the crinkle of paper.

Edward lifted the note, written in Janie's clean, neat handwriting.

Edward.

We've got AIDS.


	2. Chapter 1: December 24, 1995, 8:55PM

**I am so excited that 8 people commented my first chapter!! I really hope to do right by both the Twihards and the Rentheads. Let me know how I'm doing!

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**_**December 24, 1995, 8:55PM  
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Jasper shivered and moved his rickety tripod and camera a little closer to the illegal woodburning stove he and Edward used as a furnace, even though now the light spilling in through the oilpaper window made long shadows and eclipse light lines around whatever was not in tight focus.

"Fuck it," he muttered. He chose warmth over perfection. "It's good enough."

"What the hell are you making a movie about yourself for?" Edward asked, grumbling from his perch on the milkcrate they used as an easy chair. "Again? No one fucking cared about the last two, including your fucking mother."

Jasper shook his head. He quickly polished his glasses. "This one'll be different," he swore. "I can fucking tell. Now shut up, I have to start now."

He stepped in front of the camera and turned it on. Jasper pushed his blond hair behind his ear and smiled. "Hi. You're watching a Jasper Whitlock production about true life in Alphabet City. We begin on Christmas Eve with me, Jasper, and my roommate, Edward. We live in an industrial loft on the corner of 11th street and Avenue B, the top floor of what was once a music publishing factory."

He quickly pivoted the camera and began to slowly pan around the flat, showing off the space where he and Edward were left alone on Christmas Eve. Old rock 'n' roll posters hang on the walls, advertising Edward's old gigs at CBGB's, the Pyramid Club, and Volterra Lounge. Resting precariously against another wall were thousands of white pages full of scripts and revisions… and rejection letters from studios.

"We have an illegal wood burning stove," Jasper whispered conspiratorially. "Its exhaust pipe crawls  
up to a skylight. All of our electrical appliances are plugged into one thick extension cord which snakes its way out a window. Outside," he walked the camera towards the fire escape and stepped out, "A small tent city has sprung up in the lot next to our building. Inside, we are freezing because we have no heat."

"Smile!"He turned the camera on Edward, who paused from his pursuit on guitar to flip Jasper the bird.

Jasper chuckled and returned the camera to its tripod. He checked his watch. "December 24th, nine PM, Eastern Standard Time. From here on in I shoot without a script – see if anything comes of it – "

"Instead of your old shit," piped in Edward, a rare lopsided half-smile gracing his lips.

Jasper smirked in challenge and zoomed in on Edward's fingers, picking at the guitar strings. "First shot – Edward, tuning the Fender guitar he hasn't played in a year."

"Fuck off," Edward said, back to his usual surly self. "This won't tune."

He picked up his tuning pick and threw it across the apartment. It hit the cementblock wall with a clatter and skittered across the floor like a rat.

Jasper paused and let the camera focus bokeh and fuzzy around Edward as he scrubbed a hand through his shaggy auburn hair, his face a mask of pain.

Jasper spoke softly into the camera's microphone. "He's just coming back from half a year of withdrawal."

The year since Jane died – the year since Edward found out since he was HIV positive – the year since Edward quit hard drugs – the year that everything fell apart had been a nightmare. For the first six months, Edward had been a nightmare, and Jasper watched as his vibrant friend dissolved into a skeleton, constantly shivering and feverish. Jasper and Edward were so close that he could feel Edward's physical pain and mental anguish as though they were his own.

After his third OD when he relapsed and went on a binge, Jasper sold all of their furniture and put Edward into inpatient drug rehab.

He'd just come home two weeks before.

Still, even as he sat on the crate, his once-beautiful guitar on his lap, Jasper felt the guilt and sorrow emanating from his friend.

"Tell the folks at home what you're doing Edward," prompted Jasper, pulling the still-handsome man into focus again.

Edward didn't look up. "I'm writing a song."

"C'mon, Edward, give me something," pleaded Jasper. "Some emotion, some backstory, some – some chords? Something? Eh? Can you fucking give me something, please?"

The stolen payphone in the corner rang.

"Saved!" said Edward, throwing a cheesy thumbs up at the camera.

"Fuck you," Jasper muttered, smiling at Edward's progress. He turned back to the camera. "We screen."

The machine kicked on. "That was a very loud beep!"

"Oh, fuck," Jasper muttered, moving to turn off the camera.

"Don't you fucking dare," said Edward, the hint of a laugh in his voice. "You want some real character and drama in your movie, you leave her in this shit."

Jasper sighed, defeated.

Edward was right.

His mother was still rambling into the answering machine. "I don't even know if this is working! Jasper! Jasper, are you there? Are you screening your calls? It's mom! We wanted to call and say we love you and we'll miss you tomorrow. Maria and the kids are here, they send their love."

There was a pause and Jasper held his breath.

She wasn't finished. "Oh! I hope you like the hot plate! Just don't leave it on, dear, when you leave the house."

A longer pause. Jasper almost moved to delete her from the machine when she started in again. "Oh! And Jasper! We're sorry to hear that Alice dumped you, but I say c'est la vie. So let her be a lesbian. There are other fishies in the sea! Love you, bubbeleh."

The machine beeped again and silence rang out in the drafty apartment.

A siren outside broke the silence. There was a sound of a bottle smashing and drunken laughter.

The soft beat of a drum from a block away.

And then, a sound that Jasper hadn't heard in a year.

Edward doubled over, laughing.

Jasper grit his teeth.

"Fuck," he muttered, lifting his camera from the tripod and bringing it back to capture Edward's uncharacteristic happiness. "Tell the folks at home what you're doing, Edward."

"Laughing at your unfortunate ass," Edward crowed.

Jasper huffed. "Come on, Edward, tell us what you're doing."

Edward's laughter faded. "I'm writing one great song – "

The phone rang again.

"Shit, twice in one night? Did we win the Publisher's Clearinghouse sweepstakes?" asked Jasper, raising his eyebrows in surprise. His glasses fell down his nose.

Edward shook his head and shrugged. "We screen?"

Jasper nodded and let the machine kick on again.

"Chestnuts roasting – "

Jasper and Edward scrambled for the phone and hit the speaker button. "Cullen!"

Twelve flights below, a booming laugh rang up through the fire escape, curling around the icy metal poles and warming the air. Carlisle Cullen grinned. "I'm downstairs, bitches!"

Edward and Jasper slapped palms in a high-five. "Hey!"

"Edward picked up the phone?" Cullen sounded shocked – and relieved.

Jasper shook his head. "Nah, it's me. But he's here, and he's seeing people."

Edward's jaw twitched. "Only because it's Cullen."

"Man, it's fucking cold out here; throw down the key!"

Jasper pulled his keyring from his pocket and ducked out onto the fire escape. He grinned at the man waving from the pay phone below, his platinum blond hair a shock against his dark skin.

"A wild night is now pre-ordained!" Jasper called, dropping the keys. They landed with a puff of snow and Cullen jogged over to pick them up. He threw Jasper a high thumbs' up and Jasper disappeared back into the apartment – not that it was much warmer there.

Carlisle Cullen stood, dusting snow off the burnished bronze key, and whistled under his breath, making up a melody that followed the Caribbean drumbeats echoing from somewhere down 10th.

He turned.

Two Dominican men were advancing on him from down the alley, wearing Yankee caps modified to be Bloods red-and-black. One of the boys carried a baseball bat. The other was drunkenly swinging a broken Cobra bottle.

"Fuck," Cullen whispered, pocketing the keys. "I may be detained."

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**A picture of the thugs' baseball caps is here: (http://)gothamist(.com/)attachments(/)jen(/)2007_08_yankeecaps(.jpg)**


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